


Artificial

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Awkward Kissing, Emotionally Repressed, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Light Angst, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-21 18:18:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7398379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Kissing,' Ken says, like this clarifies anything at all. 'People kiss all the time on TV or out on the street. But we don’t.'" Chikusa concedes to a request and finds the effects linger longer than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Artificial

Ken is always quietest right after sex. Even then, it’s not by a very great amount -- he makes as much noise flinging himself down over the bed as Chikusa did during the entire process of getting them both some measure of physical satisfaction, and the panting rasp of his exhales is more than enough to drown out the hiss of Chikusa’s breathing as he catches his breath back from the edge of exertion. But it’s still quieter than he usually is, and Chikusa is still grateful for these moments of temporary peace, with nothing but the sound of the other’s breathing to haze to white noise in his ears. It helps, too, that Ken always completely wears himself out; it makes no difference whether he’s pushing Chikusa down against the tangle of the sheets under them or clawing his way to a handhold against the mattress himself, he never fails to end up sprawled boneless and flushed-warm into the overexerted heat that Chikusa tries to avoid for himself. Today he’s on his stomach, has flung himself face-down against what are technically Chikusa’s pillows; but Chikusa knows better than to expect any efficacy from protest, and complaining is likely to get him a growl of response instead of this brief foray into peace, so he lets it lie and leaves Ken to nuzzle down against the neat lines of his side of the bed while he pushes himself upright and resettles his glasses back into place against the bridge of his nose.

The sheets are a mess, when Chikusa considers them; they’ll need to be changed, or at least have an extra layer thrown down over them barring more effective methods of washing. He sighs resignation to the fact, considers the mess Ken made of their clothes tangled together in a heap at the side of the bed, and gives up entirely on the premise of dressing himself before a shower. His skin is sticky, his shoulders itching with the suggestion of sweat-salt collecting along his spine and his stomach wet with the spill of come Ken drew from him sometime during the frantic-rough rhythm he set while fucking Chikusa down into the sheets; Chikusa isn’t even sure it’s worth the effort of getting himself dressed just for the walk around the corner to the bathroom, and definitely not with his clothes as tangled as they are. He gets to his feet, rolling his shoulder to ease out a crackle of tension from the joint -- an effect of Ken’s too-tight hold against him to hold him in place -- and he’s just starting towards the door when Ken says from behind him, “Why don’t we ever kiss?” loud against the humid weight of the air.

Chikusa pauses and looks back. Ken has made it back to upright far sooner than Chikusa expected him to manage; he’s sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed, now, one elbow braced at his knee and his chin resting against his hand as he stares fixedly at the other. His hair is more tangled than usual and matted damp with sweat; Chikusa can see the mottled flush of arousal and effort still clinging to his bare shoulders and against the line of his thighs, but his gaze is steady, his mouth dipping into a frown as he watches Chikusa.

Chikusa stares right back at him. “What are you talking about, Ken?”

“Kissing,” Ken says, like this clarifies anything at all about his original question. “People kiss all the time on TV or out on the street. But we don’t.”

Chikusa sighs, refrains from rolling his eyes only for the unnecessary effort it would take. “People kiss when they’re dating, Ken.”

“Aren’t we dating?” Ken asks, still frowning like he’s giving the question serious thought. “We fuck all the time.”

“That’s not all there is to a relationship,” Chikusa says, and reaches up to adjust his glasses. The lenses are smeared blurry from being pushed too hard against his face while Ken was shoving him against the bed, but with the absence of any clothes on he doesn’t have anything to wipe them clean again. “People who are dating spend time together and go out to eat and see movies and hold hands.”

“I eat with you,” Ken points out. “We’re always together. We could hold hands too, if you wanted.”

Chikusa sighs again. “I’m not telling you what I want, Ken, I’m telling you what it means to be in a relationship.”

“Then we are,” Ken says, his voice edging into the rough drag of frustration in his throat that says any further attempts at rationality are going to fall flat against his rising irritation. “So we should kiss.”

Chikusa can see the pattern of this argument stretching out in front of him, can see the outline of hours, days, weeks of argumentation back-and-forth now that Ken has his teeth into the edge of this idea. It’s exhausting even to think about, feels like a weight on his shoulders even in imagination, so he lets his point go, capitulating to Ken’s statement more from preemptive exhaustion than from any actual agreement. “Fine.”

Ken blinks. “Really?”

“Sure.” Chikusa lets his hand fall to his side. “Come on.”

Ken looks taken aback. “Right now?”

Chikusa lifts one shoulder in the barest approximation of a shrug he can muster. “Yeah.”

Ken hesitates for a moment. Chikusa stays where he is, keeps watching the other with all the half-bored attention he has in him; he can see uncertainty flicker clear behind Ken’s eyes, can see his forehead crease and his mouth draw tight on discomfort. For a second Chikusa thinks he’s going to retreat from the point of action after all; but then he moves, unfolding his legs and pushing himself forward in a precipitous rush like he’s forcing himself to action as a consequence of speed, and then he’s on his feet and in front of the other with what would be alarming rapidity were Chikusa not so accustomed to the violence of Ken’s actions. As it is he just blinks to reframe his perspective on the world, adjusting to the abrupt proximity of the other in the space between one breath and the next, and then he’s looking at the tension in Ken’s face, watching the set of the other’s jaw like he’s determined to see something through in spite of the slight tremor of uncertainty at his mouth.

“Okay,” Ken says, too-loud and clearly more for himself than for Chikusa. When he reaches up it’s with both hands, to catch Chikusa’s head still in his hold like he’s afraid the other might flinch back and away. “Hold still.”

Chikusa doesn’t need to be told. He wasn’t planning on pulling away even before -- if Ken wants to kiss him it’s a simple thing to let it happen -- but now, with the other’s fingers digging in hard against his scalp, it would be more painful than otherwise to try to wrench himself free. He opens his mouth to express this, maybe with a sigh for the resignation like a weight across his shoulders, and Ken leans in to crush his mouth hard against Chikusa’s. The force is too much, bruises Chikusa’s lips back hard against the edge of his teeth; but he doesn’t voice protest to the hurt, and Ken doesn’t pull away. If anything he pushes harder, bracing the other’s head against the press of his mouth and turning his head like he’s looking for something else, like he’s trying to win some kind of unspecified reaction with the weight of his mouth against Chikusa’s. Chikusa blinks, aware that he should probably shut his eyes but not seeing much point to it, and Ken makes a faint frustrated noise and eases back by enough that he can open his mouth and lick hard against the part of Chikusa’s lips. Chikusa opens his mouth wider without protest, parting his lips for the demand of Ken’s tongue, and Ken pushes hard against the inside of his mouth, pressing their lips flush together while his tongue fits ticklish against the roof of Chikusa’s mouth and slick against the edge of the other’s lips. Chikusa can taste sugar in the back of his mouth, the sweet tang of artificial fruit flavor that comes with the gum Ken chews so incessantly; it’s not a taste he particularly likes in the gum itself, but it seems different when it comes with the heat of Ken’s mouth carrying it, like it’s picked up something heavier or richer underneath the piercing-bright notes of oversaturated flavor. There’s something more to it, now, some odd complexity like salt at the back of his tongue or the beginning of something bitter just beyond his comprehension, and he shifts closer himself, sliding his tongue against the very edge of Ken’s mouth in an attempt to track down the vague flavor he can make out from the weight of the other’s lips against his. Ken makes a startled sound, something a little bit a yelp and mostly a whine, and then he pulls away suddenly, leaving Chikusa with his mouth tingling as if his lips are going numb, or maybe were already and are just starting to regain feeling again.

“What was that?” Ken asks, frowning as if Chikusa has done something far more dramatic than touch his tongue against the very edge of the other’s mouth.

“Kissing,” Chikusa says, and reaches up to close his fingers around Ken’s wrist over his shoulder. Ken startles at the contact, his attention dropping to Chikusa’s hold at his skin, and Chikusa pushes the other’s hand off him before Ken has a chance to react to the motion. “Let go, Ken.”

“Why?” Ken wants to know, as Chikusa steps back to disentangle himself from the other’s hold. “Where are you going?”

Chikusa pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, blinks at Ken through the shine off the lenses. “To take a shower.”

“Oh.” Ken lets his hands fall, still frowning dissatisfaction. “Alright.” Chikusa turns to the door to return to his motion towards the hall and Ken speaks again, loud as if Chikusa’s hearing has faded in time with him moving away. “I want to do that more.” When Chikusa glances back Ken’s shoulders are hunched, his hands working on fists at his sides. “Kissing.”

“Okay,” Chikusa says, concession to the request coming easy with neutrality. “We will. Can I take a shower now?”

Ken shifts his shoulders like he’s shaking off a weight, tosses his head as if to clear his thoughts. His hair tumbles across his forehead, the locks catching on themselves as they shift with his movement. “Yeah, whatever,” he says, turning back to the bed like he’s already forgotten his interest in Chikusa still standing in the doorway. When he tosses himself back over the mattress it’s in a boneless sprawl that lands him across most of the bed, careless of the damp they’ve left over the sheets. He curls onto his side almost immediately, his spine curving to press taut under his skin as he nuzzles himself into comfort against the sheets like a puppy settling into a new bed. Chikusa turns away, leaves Ken to cuddle himself into the sheets and drop into his usual post-coital drowse while he goes in pursuit of the shower demanded by the unpleasant stickiness clinging to his skin.

The water washes away the salt-sweat at the back of his neck, and the weight of damp in his hair, and the sticky spill of come drying against his stomach. But the prickling sensation at his mouth remains, no matter how long he lets the water run over his face in an attempt to wash it away, and even when he shuts the water off, the taste of candy lingers on his tongue.


End file.
